


In Sickness

by 365GoneRogue (beachboundandbemused)



Series: In Another World [2]
Category: The Good Fight (TV), The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: 5 headcanons, Alternate Universe, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beachboundandbemused/pseuds/365GoneRogue
Summary: Prompt: "Diane is terribly sick (some serious disease) while they are apart from the cheating, Kurt then comes back to take care of her."***"These encounters are always hard—knowing what he’s lost and how he’s hurt her, the painful awkwardness with the woman with whom he always found comfort—but now especially, feeling in his gut that something is amiss and not knowing how to approach her about it (or even if he has a right to at all), he feels particularly ill at ease."





	1. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Tumblr I asked that people "Send me a McHart AU or theme and I’ll give you 5+ headcanons about it…" This work is a response to the prompt, "Diane is terribly sick (some serious disease) while they are apart from the cheating, Kurt then comes back to take care of her." 
> 
> Takes place shortly into the timeline of The Good Fight. A few changes have been made to the universe but they should be made clear through context in the writing.
> 
> _____
> 
> Needless to say, I have ventured far beyond "5+ headcanons" and therefore have given this response its own work that will have 3-4 parts. That being said, please do not expect for this to be a fully fleshed out multi-chapter fic--there are a number or areas that are lacking elaboration. But, I'm hoping it'll still be enough to satisfy (and it is certainly above and beyond what was required to fill the prompt). 
> 
> Further to note, I've done away with the format in which I was numbering each "headcanon," as I had done with previous responses in this series (it was getting a little ridiculous once I reached a certain length). You will see distinct sections throughout this work though, multiple in each chapter (though each sections sort of serves as an abbreviated chapter itself).
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me through these notes and hope you enjoy!

It’s been eleven months since they separated and one month since he’s last seen her when he runs into her in the hall of the courthouse. Despite the fact that they’re nearly face to face, he has to do a double take to be sure it’s her—as thin as she’s been the entirety of the time he’s known her, she’s thinner yet now, and her face seems void of any natural color, though she’s done a reasonable job concealing such with makeup. Further, he hadn’t expected her to be in the country at that time let alone the courthouse. Last time they had spoken she had made the decision to retire and had been ready to purchase a home in the south of France.  
  
“Diane, hi. How are you?” he leads them into their exchange. It’s a natural opening—one he’s used before within the past months—but he’s more interested in the answer now than perhaps ever before.  
  
But a “fine, thank you,” is all he receives in response. “And you?”  
  
“Fine,” he returns dismissively, eyeing her closely for a moment then shifting his weight from one foot to the other. These encounters are always hard—knowing what he’s lost and how he’s hurt her, the painful awkwardness with the woman with whom he always found comfort—but now especially, feeling in his gut that something is amiss and not knowing how to approach her about it (or even if he has a right to at all), he feels particularly ill at ease. “You’re here, in the States. And in court,” he finally says, keeping to a neutral observation (and decidedly one that is not focused on her appearance).  
  
“Yes,” she says, her expressions carefully measured. “I… felt like I was running from the problems of the country. Instead, I decided that now more than ever I should be here, fighting them.”  
  
He nods—that sounds like Diane, he admits. But while she speaks the words boldly and confidently, to a degree that most would not question… he is not most people. And he knows that, if not entirely untrue, there is more to it all that she is not telling him. He thinks a moment longer before questioning, “The Rindell fund—did you have anything wrapped up in there?” _Perhaps she_ couldn’t _retire and move away._  
  
“No. I did, but pulled it just in time, thankfully—for the house, actually, though I ultimately decided against making the final purchase.”  
  
“Good. That’s good.”He studies her further then, trying to read all he can from her features (but coming up with little as she’s deliberately not giving anything away) and again taking in her appearance. She’s apparently been fighting in court, and he often found that she tended to neglect sleep and proper meals when fully immersed in a case. But this seemed different. She’s lost more weight than a couple of meals worth and what he sees in her eyes and her coloring looks deeper than “tired.” He’s concerned… but he still wonders where his place is in all of this. How far can he push this in his current position, particularly when he still has hopes for reconciliation.  
  
Before he’s able to decide whether or not to press her further, she lifts and turns her wrist, glancing briefly at her watch (though he doubts she actually checks the time). “I’ve actually got to go, Kurt—first day back in court. But, umm… I’ll see you.”  
  
She’s ready and eager to part ways and does not wait for a response before stalking off down the corridor. Before she rounds the corner though, he calls out to her, and thankfully she stops, looking straight into his eyes over her shoulder. And if he cannot further question her then he must at least leave her with this.  
  
“Take care.”

  
  
*******

Stoic, he is anything but when he receives the call from Harbor Hospital three weeks later. Once he arrives the nurse is quick to put him at ease— _“She collapsed, but she’s doing well now; fully conscious and alert. She should be cleared for release as soon as her IV is complete.”_ But any ease that comes from the young woman’s words is obliterated upon the first glimpse of his wife.  
  
His heart drops instantly.  
  
As she lay before him on the hospital bed, reclined back with eyes closed, not yet privy to his presence, he swallows, taking a moment to steady himself. He’s never seen her like this—never seen her so small, so… weak. She’s ghostly white, save for the dark circles below her eyes and two bruises on her left arm, and her form is a fraction of what it once was—the hospital issued gown drowns her body and leaves a gaping neckline through which he can see the distinct definition of every bone in her chest, and her arms, always so strong and toned, now appear gangly. She was already down _at_ _least_ five pounds the last time he saw her, likely ten—she must be down twice that now.  
  
He was concerned before. Now he’s _scared_.  
  
He decides then and there that no matter the consequences for him or for them, he _will_ press her on this. He will find what is at the root of all this and will do everything in his power to get his wife healthy again, will do everything in his power to keep her from withering away.  
  
With a final steeling breath he raps twice on the doorframe. When her eyes open they immediately go wide.  
  
She’s quick to sit a little straighter, pulling her shoulders back and extending her neck, presenting herself with as much dignity and strength as possible given the circumstances. She then clears her throat before speaking, though her voice is still hoarse. “Kurt. What are you doing here?”  
  
“They called me.I’m… I’m your next of kin.”  
  
She shakes her head, letting out a breath. “I told them that wasn’t necessary.”  
  
“Wasn’t-?” His brow furrows, flabbergasted. “ _Wasn’t necessary_? Diane, you collapsed. You’re… look at you,” he gestures at her body before him, eyes moving again from head to toe and back up again. There are a number of words that come to mind to describe the horrific sickly state his wife is in, but he settles on something gentler for the time being. “You’re not well.”  
  
Diane looks away as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m fine.”  
  
And with that, something within Kurt tightens at his wife’s refusal to acknowledge that something is wrong with her despite the fact that she does so from a hospital bed. He proceeds without raising his voice, but not without letting emotion come through within it. “You are _not_ fine. You _know_ you are not fine. And if your doctor here says you are then I will personally take you elsewhere, to every hospital in this city if I have to…”  
  
“Kurt,” she attempts to cut him off.  
  
“… for a second or third or however many goddamned opinions are needed to figure out what is wrong, because-”  
  
“Kurt!” she tries again, this time more forcefully and successfully. He stops and looks to her expectantly while she lets out a sigh and runs a hand through her hair. “You’re right,” she says finally, “I’m _not_ entirely fine. But I do have a diagnosis, and it _is_ being handled.”  
  
He’s not sure if her admission makes him feel better or worse—the confirmation that something is, in fact, wrong certainly has him concerned, but to at least know that it has been acknowledged and is being treated brings comfort… of course the latter is still up for debate as, “This doesn’t exactly look handled.”  
  
“It’s early yet.” He eyes her suspiciously at that, to which she responds, “Really, I’m headed in the right direction.”  
  
He lets out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as he processes and considers his next move. He’s not entirely satisfied and isn’t quite sure he fully believes her. But it’s clear she doesn’t wish to further discuss things with him and so he has no choice but to take her at her word. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he offers, fighting his instinct to push and to argue. ‘ _Trust her_ ,’ he tells himself.  
  
“No,” she shakes her head decisively. “I’ll be alright.”  
  
“At least let me drive you home?”  
  
“Thank you—and I’m truly thankful to you for coming—but Maia is on her way. She should be here shortly, actually, and my doctor is going to want to speak with me before I’m discharged, so…”  
  
She’s giving him his queue to leave, and while he nods, he makes no move to go—he’s not ready, not yet. Perhaps she’s on the road to health, but she still looks so ill and he feels so powerless.  
  
“Kurt,” she says when a moment has passed. “Please.”  
  
“Right,” he nods, taking a steps toward her to say goodbye. He will leave her now, as she wishes, but he’ll stay in touch, and he’ll be sure that she continues on ‘in the right direction’.  
  
It is then though that the two are interrupted by a figure in a lab coat holding a clipboard just about up to his nose breezing into the room and chastising, “ _Ms. Lockhart_ , I told you to slow down as we start you with chemo, you’re body-” The doctor looks up then and holts upon seeing that his patient is not alone and observes the looks on both of their faces.  
  
Diane lets out a breath as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back to the pillow. Kurt’s mouth falls open, stunned, and his breathing becomes labored.  
  
“Diane, I apologize; I didn’t realize you had company, I-” there’s apparent horror and regret in both his features and tone.  
  
“It’s alright,” she interrupts, though only opening her eyes after her statement. “He’s my husband, I just hadn’t…” she trails off, waving a dismissive hand.  
  
“I’ve, uh… I’ve got another patient I need to check in on—I’ll give you two a few minutes. I am _very_ sorry.” He’s gone as quickly as he came, leaving husband and wife.  
  
While Kurt may be a man of few words, it is rare that he is at a loss for them. He is here, though. “Diane, I… I mean, do you…?” He can hardly process the information and soon finds himself sitting in the bedside chair, folded over with elbows on his knees and feeling a bit like he too might collapse soon.  
  
“It’s cancer,” she confirms when he cannot ask. “Lymphoma.”  
  
He feels as though there is no air in his lungs, as if the room is spinning. _This can’t be happening._ But it is, and he knows he has to pull himself together enough to get through this conversation. As shocking as it was to hear and to hear it that way, he has been given a gift in this knowledge, and he is determined to make the most of the situation. Perhaps now that he is in the know she will further entrust him—with information for starters, but perhaps even with care. This is bound to be the most trying time of her life and he wants nothing more than to be there for her, to support her in any way she needs. He’ll give her his time and his love, his blood or even his life if it were necessary.  
  
With a steeling nod he looks up and clasps his hands. “What’s your prognosis?”  
  
“Fair, considering. Better if they find a bone marrow match for a stem cell transplant.”  
  
“What does fair mean?”  
  
“It means my odds are fair.” She hardly blinks an eye as she blatantly evades his question.  
  
Kurt is undoubtedly frustrated, letting out a sigh. But he also knows he’s fortunate to even be in on this as all, so he lets it pass for now. “Okay. What can I do?”  
  
She swallows hard before shaking her head. “Nothing.”  
  
“Diane,” he persists, “ _let me help_.”  
  
She won’t look him in the eye but shakes her head again.  
  
“Look,” he begins, understanding… or so he thinks. “I know you’re not yet ready to reconcile, maybe you never will be, and that’s… that’s okay.” _Of course it’s not ‘_ okay _,’_ _but it’s understandable and acceptable._ “This isn’t about that. This is simply about me being there for you—taking you to appointments or being on call, spending a night in the guest room if need be, just… just helping you get through this, helping you _fight_ this.” He’s desperate to help her, to  _do something_.  
  
“Kurt,” she whispers, voice strained and eyes glistening. “You can’t.”  
  
“ _Why not_?” His voice comes out more forcefully than he intends.  
  
“Because…” She trails off, looking pained, opening and closing her mouth without speaking further. She closes her eyes briefly too, but upon opening them she finally proceeds. “Because the two of us being together can never not be complicated... and because it _hurts_ ,” her voice cracks, and she swipes at her eyes. “And this is already so hard, Kurt, in so many ways, and I just can’t deal with...” She waves a hand between the two of them.“…with us right now, and with everything that goes along with it. I need to be putting every ounce of energy I have into fighting this damn thing, not into figuring out what’s happening with us. What I need from you is to just let me fight this.”  
  
His heart is shattered. When he decided he would do anything to help her through this, this was the last thing he had in mind. But he cannot deny her, not after that, not as she sits before him, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Not when it’s all his own doing.  
  
Tears prick at his own eyes too, but he’s quick to blink them away, determined to be strong for her through this… it’s the least he can do.  
  
“Okay,” he says, placing a hand on her knee over the thin cotton blanket that covers her. “But I need you to promise me two things.”  
  
She eyes him tentatively in response.  
  
“First, that you fight this thing like _hell_. You are the strongest woman I know and I expect you to come out swinging with everything you’ve got, fighting it like it’s the case of your life.”  
  
A quiet, feeble laugh comes from Diane before she nods in confirmation. “I promise.” Then, with a trace of hesitation returning, “And the second?”  
  
“The second being that…” He pauses briefly, the corer of his mouth twitching and his demeanor suddenly a little grimmer. “That if your prognosis ever, God forbid, becomes less than ‘ _fair_ ,’ that you'll tell me, Diane. Please, tell me before…” He cannot finish his sentence but he does not need to. " _Please_."  
  
Diane places her hand over his. “I will.”  
  
“Alright.” He looks into her eyes, imploring her to understand what was behind his pleas to allow him to help and is now behind his willingness to walk away at her request despite every fibre in his being screaming to stay. And then, just incase she cannot see it, he says it too. “ _I love you._ ”  
  
“I know,” she says, and is then seemingly unable to decide upon her following words—a confession or an explanation.  
  
He can tell she’s torn. He knows that deep down she does love him still, he could see it just as plainly in her eyes as he is sure that she could in his. But it’s not so simple for her, and again, he knows it’s all his own doing. So he makes it a little easier for her and gently hushes her, “Shhh… it’s okay.” He rises to place a lingering kiss on her forehead then finally heads for the door. But before exiting he turns back, and tells her adamantly, “If you ever change you mind, if there’s ever an emergency-”  
  
“I’ll call.”  
  
He nods and with all of the words he hasn’t already said sounding trite, he settles on giving her a gentle smile before making his exit while standing tall, and continues to carry himself that way through the hospital. It’s not until he’s locked away in the cab of his truck that the sobs finally come.

  
  
*******

Later that night he sends her a brief text,

  

>   
>  _Kurt: Know that I respect your wishes…_  
>  but also know that I’ll be here if you ever  
>  change your mind. Always.  
>    
>  Diane: I know. And I appreciate it.  
> 

When his first text goes over well he continues to send her messages. It's not much, but at least he feels as though he's doing  _something_... and it helps to maintain at least some kind of connection, as minimal as it may be.

 

>   
>  _Kurt: Thinking of you—hope you’re doing  
>  as well as can be expected.  
>  _ _____  
>    
>  Kurt: Heard you were still working on  
>  immigration cases fighting the travel  
>  ban. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it  
>  again—you’re my hero.  
>    
>  Diane: Just doing what I can while I still can.  
>    
>  Kurt: Lockhart, 2020.  
>    
>  Diane: Thanks, but I think I’m just going to  
>  focus on getting through 2017 right now.  
>  _____  
>    
>  _Kurt: Wishing a good morning to the strongest_  
>  woman I know.  
>  ____  
>    
>  Kurt: Just a reminder of the full moon tonight—I  
>  know how you love those.  
>  ____  
>    
>  Diane: Just received the gardenia’s you sent.  
>  They’re beautiful—thank you.  
>    
>  Kurt: Saw them and couldn't help but think  
>  of you.  
>    
>  How have you been feeling?  
>    
>  Diane: Cliché, I know, but… good days and bad.  
>    
>  Kurt: And today?  
>    
>  Diane: Not so bad.  
>    
>  Kurt: I’m glad. Hang in there, Lockhart.  
>  ____  
>    
>  Kurt: Hoping you’re having a good day.  
>  ____  
>    
>  Kurt: Thinking of you. And remember, I’m  
>  always here if you need anything.  
>  ____  
>    
>  Kurt: Came across this video this morning.  
>  Didn’t do much for me, but thought you  
>  might like it—in case you need a pick-me  
>  -up. Just some democratic unadulterated  
>  drivel.  
>  ____  
>    
>  Kurt: Keep on fighting, Diane.  
>    
>  Diane: Every damn day.

  
  
*******

Having set his phone so that calls from her numbers are the only ones permitted to come through while on the stand, when he feels the vibrations in his pocket he hardly waits for the judge to excuse him before he’s bounding out to the hall and answering on the last ring.

“Diane, hi!” he greets her, a little breathless. “I-How are you? Is everything alright?”  
  
“Considering, yes. I was actually recently notified about a bone morrow match and I-” She pauses and lets out a long breath.   
  
When a minute passes with only her steady breathing coming across the line, he gently presses, “Diane?”  
  
“Yes, um…” She clears her throat before, finally, it comes out. “What’s your schedule looking like over the next few weeks?”  
  
Kurt doesn’t skip a beat. “Whatever you need it to look like.”  
  
“Kurt,” she begins, and he knows she will try to give him an out, to give him opportunities for excuses—but he has no interest in taking her up on any she has to offer. He has no idea specifically what she needs, but it does not matter.  
  
“Diane,” he promptly cuts her off. “ _I’m here_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that cancer provided more than enough hardship for Diane, and therefore decided to spare her her fortune. But I still wanted to honor the circumstance of TGF and so I thought her getting out of the mess by the skin of her teeth while still being somewhat ostracized for her connection with the Rindell's (also adding her connection with Maia) would provide a nice balance. Thanks for reading and more to come!


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we move into these next chapters and dip more into procedures and symptoms, please keep in mind that though I've done my research (and been around an unfortunately significant number of family members fighting their own battles--four in this past year and a half alone, one with a similar diagnosis), I am no medical professional and everything related to cancer is incredibly complex. I've done my best to be as medically accurate as possible, but I'm certain I must be off on a few things here and there. Apologies, please be forgiving!
> 
> Additionally, if you or anyone close to you have/has or are/is going though a similar battle, my heart goes out to you and your loved ones. I have done my best to write with sensitivity and truly apologize if I trigger or offend.

When he finally sees her again it is in the lobby of the hospital before an appointment with her doctor and she’s the greatest sight he’s ever seen. He's so thankful to be seeing her at all and, truthfully, she looks good. Or, better than expected anyway, given the trajectory she had been on. She doesn’t necessarily appear healthier than before, but not much worse, either. Of course he’s sure her ensemble—her armor—is playing a role in his perception… as he is sure she intended. She stands tall in her bronze stilettos, shoulders back in her navy jacquard blazer—her entire appearance meets the same impeccable standards she’s always maintained.  
  
When he comes closer it is apparent that her hair is not her own, but rather a wig (though one of high quality that is styled as she prefers). She is not vain, but she does take pride (and joy) in being polished and has always had a particular fondness for her hair. He is sure the loss of it was one of the many things in the last two months that has been difficult to cope with, and it is one of the many things he wishes he had been able to support her through. …But he’s here _now_ , he reminds himself.  
  
When he meets her, he does not speak nor think before he wraps his arms around her slim form and embraces her.  
  
Diane lets out a little gasp at the sudden move, but does not pull away and soon relaxes and brings her hands to rest on his back. And though she does not fully indulge in the embrace herself, she allows Kurt to have the moment and to take what he needs.  
  
*  
  
The appointment serves to inform the two of what is to come in the next weeks pertaining to care throughout the stem cell transplant process, though it quickly shifts into negotiations. Diane insists that Kurt’s presence will only be necessary in the first couple of weeks following the transfusion, but her doctor cautions otherwise, advising that he should at least be on call throughout the intense treatments of chemo therapy and radiation that will serve to obliterate remaining cancer cells as well as prepare her body for the transplant in the two weeks prior to the procedure. He also cautions that her post-procedure timeline may not be entirely realistic. Kurt is in agreement with the doctor on all points.  
  
In the end, a compromise is made that Kurt will accompany her to treatments and be sure she’s settled before heading back to his farm (though he’s already decided he’ll instead be staying at a hotel three blocks away). Following the transfusion, her doctor promises to evaluate her need for a full-time caretaker as soon as her white blood cell count reaches an acceptable level—could be as little as two weeks, could be up to six.  
  
Diane also agrees that the time has finally come to take a break from work, as limited as it may have been.  
  
*  
  
After her appointment comes to an end he again offers to drive her home.  
  
“Thanks, but I’m, ah… I’m just a few blocks away, actually. Thought I’d walk today—enjoy the fresh air and freedom before I’m locked away for a month.”  
  
“A few blocks?” he questions.  
  
She clears her throat before confessing, “Turns out three-floor living isn’t all that practical during chemo. I still have my place, but I’ve also been renting an apartment in a high rise to stay for the time being.”  
  
“Diane…” he sighs.  
  
But she does not want his sympathy nor his pity and raises a hand outward before him. “No,” she shakes her head. “I could have managed… I just thought my energy was better spent elsewhere. And with getting a place near the hospital too, it’s also spared me some time.”  
  
“Alright,” he nods slowly. “Well, how about I walk you there, then?”  
  
He doesn’t expect her to take him up on his offer… which makes him that much more delighted when she consents after brief consideration.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Okay.”

 

*******

 

When they enter the treatment center that first day she is far more relaxed than he anticipated—she breezes in and out of the radiation room, as they enter the chemotherapy suite she is already pulling at the bow at the neck of her blouse and pushing the fabric aside to expose her port all the while cracking jokes with the nurse, she merely blinks as they connect the tube to her port and hook her up to machines. Frankly, her comfort level is disconcerting. And not because he doesn’t want it to be as easy as possible for her—certainly not—but rather because he hates that it’s something that she’s had the opportunity to grow comfortable with.  
  
“You’ve gotten used to it all?” he remarks once the drip is flowing.  
  
“I don’t think anyone gets _used to it_ , not entirely,” she raises a single brow. “But I know what to expect now and it is what it is.”  
  
*  
  
It’s a long day, and while, following settling in, it begins with awkward small talk, he’s surprised to discover how warm and at ease she becomes with him in a relatively short amount of time… particularly given how she fought with the doctor to keep him away at this stage.  
  
They talk about her goddaughter’s involvement over the past months, about the light but impactful work she had done recently and how Adrian Boseman had welcomed her into his firm despite her involvement with the Rindells or her diagnosis. She also asks Kurt about his own work and how his life has been going.  
  
When Maia stops by he excuses himself and gets a bite to eat while he lets them have some time together—something, she had just shared with him, they’ve both come to greatly treasure as of late. When he returns, they both turn to their respective books, sharing comfortable silence until she drifts off to sleep. It’s oddly the most “normal” experience he’s shared with her since that awful day in court.  
  
*  
  
That evening, back at her apartment, she is violently ill. When her heaving ceases, he studies her—her hands tremor and tears have formed in her eyes.  
  
“It hasn’t been this bad before,” she whispers, barely audible.  
  
He can physically feel a pain in his heart as he sees her like this.

  
  
*******

Four days into the intense conditioning regimen Kurt begins spending nights at her place. She brushes off the offer as, after putting thought into it, it seems ridiculous to pay for a hotel when she has a guest room in her new apartment for this exact purpose. He knows though that the effects of the high-dose chemotherapy and radiation therapy have been significantly worse than she had anticipated—with each day she grows more feeble, becomes more sick—and he suspects that she feels safer and more comfortable having him around. He also wonders though if its perhaps possible that his general presence is being enjoyed and appreciated more than she had anticipated.  
  
His third night there he’s awoken by a sound in the middle of the night, and upon going to check on her, he hears her vomiting behind the bathroom door. He’s quick to knock, calling out to her, “Diane? Everything okay in there?”  
  
He hears a gasp of a response, “Yeah.”  
  
“Can I come in?” he asks next, adding, “Diane?” when a moment passes with no response.  
  
Another beat of silence before he finally hears her voice again, “I, um… okay.”  
  
Gently, he pushes open the door and sees her taking on a position he’s become all too familiar with over the past several days. She sits on the floor before the toilet, legs curled beneath her while leaning against the wall. This time though her head is void of a scarf or a wig… or her natural hair, for that matter. It’s the first time he’s seen her in such a state—the first time she’s _allowed_ him to see her in this state—and it is clear that she is self conscious about it even now, as she avoids his eyes. But while it is admittedly jarring to see her this way—so different from what he is used to—he truly finds her to be as beautiful as ever.  
  
He continues on, without hesitation, in what has become his routine—retrieving a cloth from the linen closet, dampening it with cold water, then filling the small glass on the counter before moving to sit just behind her and placing the cloth on her forehead.  
  
“Thank you,” she says meekly, taking the water from him and sipping, but still avoiding his eyes.  
  
They’ve long passed the point of him asking such trivial questions as, “ _Are you alright?_ ” The inevitable answer is “ _no, but I’ll manage_.”  
  
“Is there anything else I can do for you right now?” he asks instead.  
  
“Could you bring me a scarf?”  
  
“Are you cold?” He already knows the answer.  
  
“No, I just…” She won’t say it, but she doesn’t have to, the vulnerability in her features evident.  
  
In response, he leans in to place a kiss to her temple.  
  
“You’re _beautiful,_ ” he then shares with her, with conviction.

  
  
*******

At her final pre-transplant evaluation the day prior to her procedure, they hear the words that she’s been hoping for since the day she was diagnosed.  
  
“We got it all—you are officially cancer free.”  
  
It’s good news, but he’s sure it hasn’t brought the relief and elation that she’s imagined since this nightmare began. Given the treatments she's been subjected to over the last weeks it was just about a guarantee, making it all rather anti-climatic. Further, it was a trade off. She’s gone through hell to get here and, rather than signifying that there is no longer a threat to her life and that the dreadful ordeal may be left in the past, her new diagnosis simply means that the threat has been shifted. This isn’t over yet—she is not yet in the clear as the risk of the transplant remains.  
  
*  
  
He takes in her silhouette as she sits, curled up in an armchair with a blanket and a cup of tea, looking out at the sparkling city below through the floor-to-ceiling windows. When she said she got an apartment in a high rise she wasn’t kidding—she’s on the 52nd floor in a corner unit and has an expansive view of both the city and the lake.  
  
_“You can’t take it with you, right? Might as well enjoy while I’m here,”_ she had said when she first gave him a tour of the place.  
  
It’s all a little more modern than her preferred style, but she’s done a remarkable job decorating to her taste in a minimalist way—bringing in just enough photos, paintings, and accent pieces to make it feel personal. It’s especially impressive when you consider the limited time she had to do so (not to mention her limited energy).  
  
“It’s not quite a country sky,” she says upon seeing his reflection in the glass, “but it’s not too shabby, either.”  
  
He rounds the second chair set beside hers with a smirk, sitting himself. “No, not too shabby.”  
  
Following a few minutes of comfortable silence he asks, “How are you feeling?”  
  
“A little nauseous still, but better than yesterday... certainly better than the day before that.”  
  
“That’s good; but I meant about the transfusion tomorrow.”  
  
“Ah,” she says, a wry smile coming to her lips, “that.”  
  
He takes a sip of the beer he brought over with him and remains quiet as he allows her to process, giving her the time she needs.  
  
“A little excited… a little scared,” she finally says, her voice cracking on the final word and her eyes glistening when he looks over.  
  
He reaches out for her hand resting on the arm of her chair and takes it into his, holding it securely, and is pleasantly surprised when her fingers curl ever so slightly around his. “It’s okay to be scared.”  
  
She nods. “It’s an odd place—there’s so much grey area. I mean…” she lets out a breath, preparing for her confession. “Before they found the match, things were beginning to look… slightly _less than fair._ ”  
  
Kurt’s grip tightens.  
  
“My odds with the transplant have increased drastically—I’m _officially cancer free_! But there’s always a chance the graft could be unsuccessful and leave me worse off than I was—it’s a slim chance, but it’s there. And even if all does go well with that, the procedure could still backfire in three years, in five years—there are a number of cancers that could appear in any number of years. And while I know it’s worth the risk, I just wonder if—if the transplant is successful… am I going to be living in constant dread for the rest of my life?”  
  
“Maybe,” he answers honestly. “Or maybe you’ll be able to live with more clarity—embracing every moment. You know, fighting injustices, spending more quality time with your goddaughter… living in what is undoubtedly an absurdly expensive apartment solely for the stunning view.”  
  
She lets out a soft laugh, one of the few he’s heard from her in the past two weeks. “Perhaps. Time will tell, I suppose.” She gently pulls her hand from his and stretches out her limbs before standing and stifling a yawn. “Well, I suppose it’s time for bed; big day tomorrow.”  
  
“Yeah,” he nods, rising to meet her and places a kiss to her cheek. “Goodnight, Diane.”  
  
“Goodnight.”  
  
She walks off, bedroom bound, but just as she reaches the door she pauses before turning and looking him in the eyes. “Thank you for being here,” she says then.  
  
“Thanks for letting me be here.”  
  
*  
  
Later that night he is by her side when she is sick again—likely the residual effects of treatments paired with nerves, they both hypothesize. As her body comes down from the trauma of vomiting and the queasiness subsides, they sit together and he rubs her back, his fingers drifting up and down her spine in the way that she has always found to be soothing. When she is finally ready to return to bed, he gets her settled under the covers, places a kiss to her forehead, and is ready to return to the guest room when she reaches out and takes his hand in hers.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
He pauses, looking back at her.  
  
“Will you stay here with me? Just for tonight.”  
  
He does not respond with words but rather rounds the bed and climbs in under the covers, laying beside her. After only brief hesitation, she begins to curl into him and he takes the queue, the two then falling into place just as they have so many times before—her head here, their legs intertwined just so, his arms wrapping securely around her. A moment after they’ve stilled he’s nearly breathless and tears prick at his eyes— _God, it feels so good to have her in his arms again._  
  
“I love you,” he whispers.  
  
She does not reply, but she does nuzzle further into the crook of his neck and lets her lips just brush against his skin there.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the update delay, all! Life happened. But it's here now and I hope you enjoy!

They’re up and checking into the hospital before dawn, and after running a few final tests and an IV, her doctor comes in to inform her that it is time for the procedure.  
  
“Well,” she looks to Kurt, who’s hardly left her side since they arrived. “I guess this is it.”  
  
She puts on a brave face, but as he looks into her eyes, the fear is evident. “Hey,” he brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “You’ve already made it through the hardest part, right? You can do this. …Whatever’s to come, you can handle it. Remember, you’re the strongest woman I know.”  
  
She gives him a weak smile then nods.  
  
He stands then and leans down to kiss her forehead, lingering by her ear a moment after to tell her this one last thing. “Everything’s gonna be alright.” Finally he straightens himself again and the medical team moves in to begin wheeling her out. Just as she passes through the threshold he catches her eyes as she looks back at him one last time.  
  
“I’ll see you on the other side, Lockhart.”  
  
*  
  
Time passes slowly in the drab yellow box of a hospital waiting room, his mind reeling. After a half hour he has to change seats as the chair he first settled in squeaked every time his knee began to bounce… which was frequently. He does work to distract himself with the book he brought, but it seems as though every time he begins to successfully do so or manages to relax, he catches a glimpse of a lab coat passing by the threshold or receives a frantic message from Maia asking for an update and suddenly he’s right back on edge again.  
  
He does receive a positive progress report from a nurse an hour and a half in, but it does less to put him at ease than he had hoped. It isn’t until it’s all over with and he finally sees her safely in her bed, in her room on the other side of the glass window, that he finally feels he can breathe. Perhaps they’re not out of the woods yet, but this is something.  
  
Moments later he’s scrubbing up and putting on the gown, shoe coverings, gloves, and mask he's been supplied with and is finally able to see his wife.  
  
“That’s a good look,” she says lazily, head still cradled by her pillow.  
  
“Just for you, dear.”  
  
She gives him a gentle, tired smile in response, but it doesn’t last long.  
  
“How was it?” he asks once he’s reached her side.  
  
“Not so bad. I’m tired though.”  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
“I think I’m going to sleep a little—don’t feel like you have to stay…”  
  
He’s ready to take her queue and respect her implied wishes and politely tell her that he’d be more than willing to stay, but that he can always take the time to touch base with Maia and pay some bills if she’d prefer. She takes him rather by surprise though:  
  
“…but you can if you want.”  
  
Truthfully, there is nothing he wants more than to stay.  


  
  
***  


She remains in the hospital for the next two days before she is released and they settle into her new apartment once more. For the two weeks that follow, aside from his occasional errand runs, days mostly consist of a trip to the hospital for brief monitoring and tests and the remainder of the time spent with her resting or sleeping on either the sofa or in bed. He does his best to keep her well fed, per doctor’s orders, but she hasn’t yet regained her appetite, it seems.  
  
*  
  
Entering the third week, things finally seem to be taking a turn for the better—she’s still tried, but less so, and they’re finally within the range of her timeline in which they can expect to see her blood counts rise. They’re both feeling hopeful and a lightness that’s been lacking over their past month together begins to come over them.  
  
*  
  
One day she pads out of her bedroom after an afternoon nap and catches him utilizing her living room television to watch a Republican senator give a speech.  
  
“Oh, the _gall_ to watch Fox News in my home—haven’t I already suffered enough?”  
  
“Well maybe if one of the other cable channels would report on Republican politics with more than out-of-context sound bites I wouldn’t have to,” he responds, unable to withhold his grin. They’re both practically giddy to once again be engaging in banter.  
  
*  
  
Two days later she sits at the kitchen island, silently observing as he cooks their dinner until he’s on the verge of dropping half a stick of butter into the skillet.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
Eyes widening, he stills. “…Cooking?”  
  
“With all that butter?” she questions, incredulous.  
  
He always put great effort into making their meals reasonably healthy when he cooked for them before—for their general health, certainly, but also because his wife, always rather concerned about her figure, insisted upon it. _“I’ve invested in too many clothes to not be able to fit into them anymore.”_ But here and now, health, for her, means gaining weight. In fact, it is paramount. Now that she has begun to regain her appetite they must capitalize on it and, to do so, each meal must consist of as many calories as reasonably possible.  
  
“Diane,” he begins, preparing for a fight. “Doctor Kane was very clear: your heart is healthy, the goal here is to put on weight by just about any means necessary. Doctor’s orders.”  
  
“ _My_ doctor’s orders,” she counters with a raised brow. “ _Your_ doctor, on the other hand, warned about your cholesterol, and I doubt all that much has changed in a year and a half…”  
  
Both pause at that, the words striking them both unexpectedly. _So much_ has _changed._  
  
“As far as the need to watch you cholesterol goes, anyway,” she adds softly.  
  
Diane then rises from her stool and rounds the island, opening a cabinet when she reaches the other end of the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. “Here,” she hands him the bottle after turning on her heel. “Use this instead. And _half_ the amount.”  
  
He hadn’t been expecting that and his heart is warmed by her concern… but his concern for her is also great. He takes a moment to consider then wordlessly reaches into a lower cabinet to pull out another skillet and places in on the stove beside the first. He halves the butter he had already portioned and places it in the first pan then drizzles the oil she had retrieved in the second.  
  
Diane lets out a melodic laugh as she looks on.  
  
“Satisfied?” he asks,  
  
She only nods while her smile lingers.  
  
*  
  
Two days after that she’s scrolling through to see what’s on television when he thinks to ask, “Hey, did you happen to keep up on that show?”  
  
“What,” she questions, turning to him, “Game of Thrones?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s the one.”  
  
“No, actually.”  
  
They exchange looks for a moment before she nods to her side, prompting him to join her on the sofa as she pulls the series up on the TV before them.  
  
*  
  
And then the next day comes.  
  


  
***  


After retuning from his morning errands and washing up, Kurt finds his wife’s bedroom door still closed, signifying that she’s yet to wake up. Checking his watch he confirms that it’s just past 8:00—unusually late for her these days, on her current schedule. Knowing she must need the extra rest though he lets her sleep and busies himself around the apartment for the next hour and a half until it is time to prepare for her 10:30 appointment at the hospital.   
  
He gently knocks on the door twice before gently turning the knob and poking his head through, finding her curled up below the duvet and snoozing away. He gets a little lost for a moment then, at the sight of her. He’s always found peace in watching her sleep—her rhythmic breathing and slightly parted lips—found comfort in the trust she had in him to allow him to see her in her most natural, uncensored state. He misses this. But they have someplace to be and so he ventures further into the bedroom, to her side, and runs a gentle index finger over her exposed cheek.  
  
“Diane, h-” he instinctually begins to add a ‘hon,’ but manages to catch himself just in time. “Diane,” he tries again, “it’s time to wake up.”  
  
She stretches out her limbs and arches her back, almost cat like, as she lets out a soft moan.  
  
“Hey,” he greets her as she turns towards him and lets her eyes flutter open. “I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s time to get ready for your appointment.”  
  
Her brow furrows at that and she runs a hand over her face. “What?” she breathes out, clearly disoriented and voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”  
  
Kurt takes a seat on the bed by her side, facing her, then informs her, “Nine-thirty.”  
  
“My God,” she sits up in place, “I’ve slept nearly, what…?” Her eyes crinkle momentarily as she thinks, then widen suddenly as she comes to the realization. “Nearly eleven hours—how can that be?”  
  
“Your body’s still going through a lot.”  
  
“Yeah,” she sighs. “Well, I guess I’d better be getting up and at ‘em.”  
  
“I’ll get you a cup of coffee,” he smiles softly. “ _And_ , I picked up an apricot tart for you at Lilah’s while I was out.”  
  
Diane’s eyes widen and a delighted grin spreads across her face. “You’re a good man.”  
  
Hearing her words, he fights to keep his smile from falling as his mind wanders. _Does she really believe that? How can she after what he's done, after what he’s put her through?_ Instead of voicing his thought though—now is not the time—he pats her on the knee and tells her, “I’ll leave you to it.”  
  
*  
  
The appointment goes well enough, proceeding as every other one has each day over the past two-and-a-half weeks. Her blood counts have yet to rise but there’s still time for them to do so—they’re still within an acceptable window and there’s not yet reason for concern.  
  
When they arrive back at her apartment they have lunch, but her energy levels are low and she soon retreats back to her bedroom for the afternoon, reading between dozing in and out. At dinner, she barely picks at her food, and though she remains in the living room for a couple of hours following, she’s quiet and not herself, and goes to bed an hour earlier than normal. Kurt is concerned, but she has no symptoms that call for an emergency visit to the hospital, and so they agree to keep an eye on things and mention her fatigue at her appointment the next morning. Mostly, he just hates to see her feeling worse again.  
  
*  
  
At 2:49 AM, he’s startled awake by a shattering noise on the other side of his bedroom door—he’s up and bounding toward the sound in a split second. When he opens the door and rounds the corner he finds her bracing herself against the marble countertop with trembling arms and the remains of what was once a glass of water surrounding her feet.  
  
“Diane!” he calls out, ready to run to her side. But barefoot and with glass shards between them, he thinks better of it. “Are you okay?” he asks, desperate and frantic from his spot eight feet away.  
  
When her head bobs up and down in the slightest movement, he tells her, “Don’t move; I’ll be right back, okay?”  
  
She nods again and he darts off to the front closet, pulling his boots onto his still-bare feet, zipping them, and is then by her side, wrapping his arm securely around her waist as she continues to support herself with her forearms braced on the counter and her forehead pressed to the surface as well.  
  
“Diane, what happened?”  
  
She shakes her head, gasping out, “I- I wasn’t feeling well so I came out for some water, and I… I got dizzy, I guess… I…” she trails off again, shaking her head.  
  
“Okay, it’s gonna be okay.” He’s not entirely sure if he’s said it for her benefit or for his own. “Are you cut anywhere?”  
  
Her head moves from side to side once more.  
  
“Okay,” he says, shifting to her other side and moving his opposite hand to her back. “I’m gonna get you.”  
  
Kurt just begins to bend at his knees, his fingers brushing at the backs of her legs when she mumbles, “You’ll hurt yourself.”  
  
“I’ll be fine,” he counters, scooping her up in his arms before she can further protest. And as light as she is now, he means it.  
  
He proceeds to make his way to the living room and gingerly sets her down on the sofa and takes a knee before her, placing a hand to her forehead. Below his palm her skin is clammy and fiery to the touch. He gulps.  
  
“We need to get you to the hospital.”  
  
The fight he half-expects from her at his suggestion does not come…  
  
“Yeah,” she agrees quietly.  
  
…And his concern for her grows even greater.

  
  
  
***  


Pneumonia. It’s not uncommon for transplant recipients and they caught it soon enough—her doctors are confident they can see her through it. …But it is a setback. She still feels terrible now and has been confined to a hospital room for another five days as her body and her medical team fight through this. _It’s not fair_ , he can’t help but think. For all she’s been though, why must she face this, too.  
  
On her third day in the hospital she passes the four week mark since her procedure, ending a crucial window in her recovery in which her blood counts should have begun rising. There are no immediate consequences, but in not meeting this point in her recovery timeline, her chances of encountering complications down the road have increased.  
  
She still has about two weeks before it may be considered graft failure, but nothing is looking all that promising at this point, either.  
  
Things had been going so well only six days prior—physically and emotionally she had made leaps and bounds, she had finally seemed to be returning to her old self again… or at least some version of it. Watching her now, again rather feeble and looking utterly defeated as she rests on the bed waiting for her release, he tries to wrap his mind around how her health and spirits could have fallen so far, so fast. It breaks his heart.  
  
“I want to go home,” she says, quiet but sure, pulling him out of his thoughts.  
  
He takes her hand into his and pats the top of it with his other. “I know. Doctor Harper just needs to stop by and we’ll be on our way.”  
  
“No,” she says, shaking her head while keeping her gaze fixed straight on the wall before her. “I mean I want to go to my home, my townhouse. I want to go _home_.”  
  
Given her current state he’s not so sure this is a good sign. …But he certainly is not about to deny her.  
  
“Then home, we’ll go.”  



	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I know... between life, my muse abandoning me, as well as this being a difficult but important chapter that I wanted so badly to get right, I was left struggling with this chapter for quite some time. In the end, I'm admittedly not so sure I got it exactly right--it's all far from perfect--but I'm... reasonably content. ...Which I think is the best we can hope for sometimes. (I'm really selling it here, aren't I?)
> 
> Anyway, it's a rather heavy chapter once we get into it (and my longest yet), but there will be another chapter or two to come... at some point.
> 
> Thanks for the continued support!

As they pass through the threshold of her townhouse after making a brief stop at the apartment to pick up essentials, he must admit that he, too, feels a sense that he is arriving _home._  
  
The further he makes his way into the house though, the more that feeling dissipates. In the entryway, his designated hook has been overtaken, the foyer closet is void of any of his belongings, and when they enter the living room he sees a new modernist painting hanging above the mantel, replacing the impressionist piece they had painstakingly chosen together over the course of three weeks. With every unfamiliarity and every missing photograph that served to document their relationship, it is made clearer that she had truly moved on.  
  
Perhaps it has always been more of her home than his—even up until the start of that day that changed it all—but over time there was at least a visible shift in the space that showed traces of his presence throughout. Most, if not all of those traces, have vanished now.  
  
He accompanies her upstairs and down the hall to their, or rather to _her_ bedroom. It’s only just past four in the afternoon but it’s been a long day and he knows she’s exhausted—physically as well as mentally and emotionally—and is ready for a nap if not for bed for the night.  
  
“Most everything is as it was,” she says lowly as they reach the double doors, her words a stark contrast to what he’s felt since seconds after entering the townhouse. “Make yourself comfortable.” She accepts her Louis Vuitton duffel bag from his grasp then begins to step into her bedroom when she pauses, turning back to him and looking as though something’s just occurred to her. “You'll be alright in the guest room?”  
  
“Yeah,” he nods surely.  
  
“It won’t be too… strange?”  
  
“Nahh…” As a matter of fact, strange only begins to describe how he anticipates it will feel to spend the night in the room down the hall rather than beside her in the bed they shared for so long. But he brushes off her concerns with a dismissive wave of his hand nevertheless. “It won’t be my first night in there,” he goes on, recalling the results of an argument that occurred two years prior and seems so superficial now. “And I remember the bed being comfortable. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Diane nods solemnly. “Alright. Well…” she inclines her head in the direction of her bed.  
  
Kurt reaches out and gives her arm a gentle squeeze. “Get some rest, Diane. And let me know if you need anything.”  
  
*  
  
He enters her bedroom three hours later with water and saltine crackers in tow, waking her for her evening pills. She’s nearly asleep again before he’s exited the room and he does not hear any signs of her throughout the remainder of the evening.  
  
*  
  
The next morning he’s out early to tie up loose ends at the apartment, pick up a few groceries and a pastry for Diane, then is back before seven. Hours continue to pass with little sign of her. At ten he hears movement up above but she does not emerge, and when he lightly approaches her door a half hour later and pokes his head in, he finds her curled up again under the duvet.  
  
He sighs and contemplates before tiptoeing in and leaving her apple turnover beside the nearly full sleeve of crackers from the night before. He then looks to her translucent pill organizer and sees the morning’s compartment is empty, indicating that she’s taken her medication, and so he leaves her once more, quietly and without disruption.  
  
*  
  
At two in the afternoon he checks on her again and this time she’s awake, though still in bed and in relative darkness with the curtains still closed. He asks her if she needs anything, offers to let a little light into the space by parting the curtains, but she quietly declines to take him up on his offers, shaking her head while keeping her place beneath the covers, head on her pillow. From his place, a step inside the door, there look to be a few more crackers gone from their packaging but the pastry remains.  
  
He closes the door behind him again as he leaves, then immediately turns to rest his back against it. He closes his eyes and concentrates on regulating his breathing while his eyes begin to well despite his best efforts. He knows that physically her body is not up to par, not even to where she was before the pneumonia struck… but this feels so much deeper than physical and his heart wrenches. Not only is it difficult to see her feeling discouraged, but it is terrifying to see her, what appears to be, resigned. She’s never been one to hide away, and so her doing so now speaks painful volumes. She _cannot stop fighting_ , not now, not when there’s still so much hope (as difficult as it may be to see through the fog of setbacks).

  
  
*******

  
  
Three days pass and she hardly leaves her bedroom other than to attend her bi-daily appointments at the hospital. Over the days he gets her to eat two halves of pastries, about a third of each of three bowls of soup, and the remainder of the sleeve of crackers he had brought in that first night—and her lack of appetite is evident at her latest appoint in which she weighs in down another two pounds from her departure from her stay at the hospital.  
  
Kurt feels helpless throughout the time, but late that third night with very little progress even after the passage of time, as he lies in bed wide awake, he knows he must do _something_.  
  
It is then that he receives a text from Diane’s goddaughter, Maia, asking about his wife’s well being. Apparently she had been trying to get in touch with her but had received no response over the past two days.  
  
Maia and her girlfriend, Amy, once visited frequently. In fact, before he came in to act as her main caretaker, the two accompanied Diane to a number of appointments. Maia in particular went above and beyond to help and simply be with the woman that served as a surrogate mother following the devastating scandal that turned her life upside-down. Following the transplant though, aside from two careful visits, they kept their physical distance as to preserve Diane’s health, not wanting to increase the risk of bringing threatening illness into her home. They had still remained closely in touch though through text, phone calls, and even video chats. Up until now, anyway.  
  
This lack of communication here, now, on Diane’s part, raises yet another red flag.  
  
Kurt raises a hand to his beard, rubbing his chin as he considers. The reality is, there’s little he can do for her physically. But emotionally, perhaps there is something that may be done.  
  
Without anymore hesitation he looks to his phone, tapping at the screen with his index finger a few times before he raises the device to his ear.  
  
“Maia, hi.”

 

*******

 

The next morning, at her morning pill time, Kurt enters Diane’s bedroom after knocking.  
  
“Brought you something,” he says, holding out yet another small, lilac paper bag containing yet another pastry.  
  
She nods in acknowledgement but makes no move to accept his offering, and so he moves to her bedside to pick up the remains of yesterday’s delivery and replace it with today’s.  
  
She’s already taken her pills, he sees, and so he isn’t surprised when he sees her sink further down in bed again, dismissively.  
  
“Wait,” he says, patting her knee. “I wanted to let you know: I invited Maia and Amy over for dinner tonight.”  
  
Her eyes go wide and within a second she’s sitting up again. “You _what_?”  
  
It’s not the reaction he had been hoping for, but it’s the most significant show of emotion (of any kind) that he’s seen from her in a week, and therefore is almost satisfying despite the negativity.  
  
“She’s worried, and she misses you; I thought it might be good for everyone.”  
  
Diane’s jaw sets and her arms cross over her chest. Her voice, when it comes, maintains its rasp but is at twice the volume he’s consistently heard from her over the past days. “You had _no right_ to do that.”  
  
Taken aback, Kurt’s brow furrows—he had been prepared for her to be less than thrilled, but had not expected such fierce resistance. “Diane,” he begins carefully, even toned. “When she hadn’t heard from you she reached out to me. She’d like to see you and I honestly thought you’d want to see her, too.”  
  
“I-I _do_.” Her words are defensive but her voice has softened again. “I just…” She seems to physically shake away the rest of what her sentence was to be as she shakes her head, then turns away, avoiding his gaze.  
  
But even as he studies her profile, it is clear that her eyes have filled with tears, little pools ready to spill out of the corners with the coaxing of but a blink. And then they begin to.  
  
Unable to keep his distance from her pain, he chances any residual anger and carefully takes a seat by her side on the bed and places his palm assuringly on her knee. “Talk to me, Diane—what’s going on?”  
  
She raises a hand to swipe at one eye and then the other. It takes a moment as, he can tell, she processes and decides whether or not she’s ready to share.  
  
“I’m not sure I’m up for that,” she tells him first.  
  
He’s sure it’s true (physically and emotionally, given her recent behavior), but he’s also sure that it is not what is at the root of her hesitation. Still, he addresses it. “They’re not looking for a hostess, Diane, they just want to see you—you don’t have to leave your bedroom if you’re not up for anything more.”  
  
She nods then contemplates further while he waits patiently. Then, finally, she swallows and confides in him. “I can’t look that girl in the eye and assure her that everything is going to be alright when I’m not so sure it will be,” she says, her voice breaking at the end and tears streaming steadily down her cheeks.  
  
“Di,” he begins tenderly, his thumb moving to wipe away her tears before he can think to stop himself. “She doesn’t _want_ you to be anything _but_ honest with her. That was the first thing she told me when we spoke about keeping in touch throughout the transplant—she wanted me to keep her fully informed, no matter the news.”  
  
“She’s been through so much in the past year,” she shakes her head. “I don’t want her to worry, not yet.”  
  
“Look,” he says gently. “This is all far from over— _nothing_ says that you won’t make it through this. But even if something does, God forbid, go wrong, wouldn’t that be all the greater reason to spend _more_ time with her?”  
  
When Diane does not respond, he goes on. “I told her last night that you weren’t feeling great and that things weren’t going as well as we all had hoped, _but_ that there was still plenty of time for things to turn around, and _that’s the truth._ ”  
  
She nods at that, to his relief. When she does speak it is not in direct response to his words, but it seems to be some form of acceptance of the situation.  
  
“What time are they coming over?”  
  
“I told them seven-thirty. Thought I’d make stuffed filet mignon and the girls are planning to bring dessert from Shay’s—surely something _sinful,_ ” he watches her carefully as he elaborates upon the menu, a smile of his own beginning to form as he sees the corner of her lips begin to turn ever-so-slightly upward. “Dress up if you’d like, wear your pajamas if you’d prefer—whatever you’re feeling up to.”  
  
Diane nods once more, sniffing. “Alright.”  
  
“Alright,” he returns, standing and smiling warmly. “Now, I’m going to run out to the market to pick up groceries for tonight. Can I do anything for you before I head out?”  
  
“I’m fine. Thank you.”  
  
“I won’t be long,” he tells her with finality, as he gives her shoulder a squeeze. But then… “Here,” he says placing today’s pastry in her lap before finally exiting the room, releasing a long breath while doing so. He’s yet to pull her out of the darkness she’s been enclosed in since the hospital, but it’s a step in the right direction.  
  
*  
  
At seven o’clock that evening Diane descends the staircase looking positively regal, put together in her typical, stellar Diane Lockhart way. Or, typical under normal circumstances, that is—so often using dress and her appearance to carry her through the worst of days. As of the few days prior though, in a rather drastic turn, that had not been the case. Certainly she did not feel all that well, but even throughout her treatment, even on days in which her energy was most depleted, she still put a degree of effort into her appearance before attending her sessions—jeans or slacks for bottom attire and lipstick, always. The same could not be said regarding her appointments over the past days… not to the same extent, at least, wearing yoga pants and forgoing the lipstick, though she did still sport a variety of her best scarves on her head that coordinated perfectly with her outfits.  
  
But here, now, she approaches with her wig on, freshly combed and coiffed, her makeup minimal though she dons a bold red lip and rouged cheeks, and she wears simple flats, flattering slim jeans, and a navy silk blouse with golden buttons adorning the cuffs as well as the neck with a loose ruffle cascading down the front. Seeing her like this, knowing that at least a flicker of light had to have been restored within her, this in itself makes it worth being the target of her ire earlier in the day. Certainly though, he expects—desperately hopes—the remainder of the evening will only add to that light.  
  
She looks up to him when she reaches the bottom of the stairs and he sees the immediate glint in her eyes that he had shamelessly been hoping for.  
  
“You’re wearing a tie,” she remarks with an even tone, and it is evident that she is fighting to keep a grin at bay. She’s still angry with him for arranging this evening without her consent, he knows, but he also maintains hope that all will soon be forgotten once her dear goddaughter arrives.  
  
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, hands in his pockets, “it goes with all of that fancy dinnerware of yours.”  
  
“Anything I can do?” she presses on, to which he shakes his head.  
  
“I’ve got just a bit more prep to do for the meal, but I’ve got that under control. Otherwise I’ve got some food ready for when they get here,” he gestures to a platter on the coffee table, “and the dining room is all set up. You can just relax until they arrive.” He put great care into preparing for this dinner in her preferred way, using the fine Tiffany bone china dinnerware, and cloth napkins and napkin rings, and serving platters, and candles, all of it—his intentions to meet her standards and satisfy her need for presentation perfection (even if only for her goddaughter), without her having to lift a finger. But knowing her, “…Or you can spend the time retracing my steps and tailoring everything _exactly_ to your liking. I did my best, but…” he trails off. _But we both know how particular you are_ , he does not need to voice, especially given that his lopsided grin conveys the message just as effectively.  
  
“No, I’m sure everything is just fine,” she tells him, though she does, in fact, go on to retrace his steps, looking as casual as possible as she makes small adjustments here and there. But it does not irritate him in the least as it once might, as, similarly as with her made up appearance, it is promising to see another element of her true self reemerge despite all circumstances.  
  
*  
  
When the doorbell rings, Kurt goes down to welcome their guests and is quick to usher them to the main level where Diane awaits. Once arriving, both he and Amy stand back, taking in the sight of the two other women greeting each other and the lingering embrace that follows.  
  
“I’ve missed you so much,” he hears Maia utter into her godmother’s ear.  
  
“I’ve missed you, too, sweetheart.” And he knows she has, her hesitation in seeing the young woman having to do with nothing but the love she has for her.  
  
Amy places her right hand over her heart as she looks on and the two share a smile, grateful to see the women they love indulging in this tender moment, no matter what the future holds.

 

*******

 

The dinner goes remarkably well. They reminisce, they talk about both Maia’s and Amy’s work (Diane, he can tell, living rather vicariously through the two, it all reminding her of the sense of purpose and accomplishment she always found in her own work), they laugh, and Diane even eats (she only picks at her entree but nearly finishes her slice of decadent double fudge cake). They touch upon her health as well, but mostly they embrace the time together and use it to appreciate and love one another.  
  
It nears ten o’clock and Amy dismisses herself, taking an Uber home while leaving her car for Maia (despite her half-hearted protests) and Kurt follows her lead and retreats to the guest room upstairs. As wonderful of a time they all had together as a foursome, they both know the two need their time together, and are more than willing to provide them with such.  
  
Another ninety minutes pass before there’s a gentle knock on his door. “Come in.”  
  
Diane does, clad in her softest robe with a scarf wrapped around her head and her makeup removed and takes a seat on the foot of the bed, curling her legs beneath her. Before him she looks tired after a late night and more activity than she’s grown accustomed to, but even through the dim light of the room she also looks restored, with a brightness that’s been lacking in her eyes having returned.  
  
“ _Thank you_ for this evening,” she says, once settled.  
  
“I didn’t do much,” he shrugs, setting down his book.  
  
“You did though— you saw me…” She searches for the right words, sounding a little breathless once finding and voicing them. “Lost, drowning… and you helped to reel me back in. _And_ ,” She swallows hard before proceeding. “And you were right: if I am nearing the end, I shouldn’t be spending the time I have left wallowing and feeling sorry for myself, I should be spending it doing what I love, spending it with the _ones_ I love. I forgot that for a little while, but you helped me to remember, and I’m grateful for that. Eternally.”  
  
Her words have him feeling a little dizzy, suddenly finding himself shaking his head as tears prick at his eyes. “No, Diane, that’s not what I…” _That’s not what I meant._ This was all meant to reignite the fight within her, not to give way for the resignation to bloom into acceptance. “I didn’t mean that I thought you were-” He can’t even bring himself to say the words—any insinuation from earlier was meant to be used as a strategic argument, not as validation of the prospect.  
  
“Diane,” he begins again as he moves further down the bed, closer to her, _desperate_ for her to see reason. “you are going to be just fine; do you understand me?”  
  
“My numbers aren’t doing what they’re supposed to do,” she points out gently, to which he immediately counters:  
  
“There’s still time for them to go up.”  
  
“There is,” she agrees. “But it’s also still entirely possible—in fact, more likely, at this stage—that they won’t, and we both know what that could mean.” She pauses then, taking a brief moment to steel herself or perhaps to allow him to do so before she says the words, plain and simple, that are like a dagger through his heart. “I could die, Kurt.”  
  
His instinct is to fight, even if he can only do so verbally. As if, if he says the words with enough strength and conviction, that the universe will accept them as a promise, as truth. “You are _not_ going to die.”  
  
“I might though.”  
  
“ _No._ ” Jaw squared and hands clenched in fists, he adamantly refuses the notion, but she presses on, her tone gentle but firm.  
  
“ _Kurt_ , I might—that’s the reality we’re facing now. I very well _might_.”  
  
He can barely breathe. He’s known from the start, from that first day he saw her in the hospital when the news was so harshly broken to him, that her death was a possibility—it’s always a possibility with cancer. But it’s always felt so distant, like something that might happen to a weaker individual if they were in her position—not to Diane. Even as her odds have worsened over the past week, two weeks, he’s held on to the belief that there was no possible battle that she could not surmount, certainly not one for her life.  
  
But for all of the beliefs and wishing in the world, he cannot adequately argue against her on this because she is right and it is, in fact, the reality—the heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, physically painful truth and it strikes him with great force.  
  
His breath becomes labored and he tries to master himself and his show of emotions, for her sake, but the ache and the pressure within are too much and soon he lets out a sob like no other he can recall. After, there is no stopping the flow that follows.  
  
Diane moves up the mattress on her knees and takes him into her arms, holding him close as he has held her so many times before, hoping that perhaps she can provide even half the comfort that he always did—still does.  
  
His arms move to wrap around her form as well, pulling her flush against him, and they remain for moments on end, and if they only parted years from now, it would still be too soon. She smells like gardenias and warmth and love, her skin velvet under his touch, her embrace creating the most secure place he’s ever inhabited.  
  
When they do part, her thumbs swipe under his eyes at his tears before she moves to wipe away her own that have come.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says then, and he is, truly, for letting this all erupt now, in her presence, because she is the last person that this should fall on. But he’s also been keeping too much blocked up behind a wall, been holding too much in, for far too long, and though the pain is still searing, he feels a release, too.  
  
She shakes her head— _it’s okay_ —as she smoothes a hand through his hair and places a kiss to his head. She then takes his hands into her own as she settles before him again. “I’m here for you.”  
  
It should be the other way around, he knows, but _God_ , she is here, and no matter what happens, he’s just so damned thankful to have her here, now, before him, to have had these last months. He still has the deepest of regrets over the greatest mistake of his life, over all that he has already lost with her—but she will forever have his gratitude for letting him in when she did, despite it all.  
  
He recalls that awful day in the hospital, when he learned of the cancer and how her only want from him was to leave her be. As helpless as he feels now, he knows how fortunate he is, too, that she had changed her mind somewhere along the line.  
  
“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, after perhaps a moment too long of staring at her, taking in everything that is Diane—her eyes, her lips, each and every breath—as his thoughts wandered.  
  
She circles her thumbs over the backs of his hands in soothing motions as she nods encouragingly.  
  
“Why did you call me? What made you decide to let me be here?”  
  
She swallows and ceases the movements of her thumbs. After a beat, she tells him in an even tone, “I did need someone to assist with my care, and Maia certainly couldn’t take on all of that.”  
  
Something in her features alone tell him that there is so much more to it than that, particularly given that, as he gently counters, “Yeah, but you could have hired people for that.”  
  
She doesn’t meet his eyes when she concedes, “I could have.”  
  
Significant time passes then, the two sitting there in silence in the dim light as she gathers her words—they will come, he is sure, and as always he is patient.  
  
When she finally does speak, she sounds sure of herself. “I told you before that my odds of survival had been less than stellar before the transplant… not all that unlike now, actually,” she adds. “And when you come face to face with your own mortality, you do an awful lot of reflecting—on what you’ve accomplished, on what’s good and important in your life, on what you’ll leave behind.”  
  
When she sees tears returning to his eyes she pauses again, beginning to reach out until he shakes his head, “I’m fine.” He’s not, of course, and they both know it, but she accepts his dismissal nevertheless and continues.  
  
“Anyway, I thought a lot about you, about us, and _Kurt_ ,” she takes his hand in hers again, enclosing it between her two. “There was so much about us that was _good_ —you made me happy, and you’ve loved me like no other—and you made a mistake, you did, but… I couldn’t bear to leave things like they were, and I need you to know…” She pauses to let out a breath and her shoulders visibly lower. “I forgive you, Kurt. And I do love you—through the worst of it, I never stopped.”  
  
He’s caught off guard by her admission, struggles to process it, feels undeserving of it. After breaking both his vows and her heart like he did, how can she forgive him just like that? How can he accept her forgiveness?  
  
It’s a long moment that passes before he speaks, and when he finally does, he avoids her gaze.  
  
“I appreciate that, Diane, really, but you don’t have to-”  
  
“I do,” she cuts him off before gently clarifying. “Because it's not for you, Kurt… not entirely, anyway. It’s for me, too. I don’t want this lingering within me any longer, and I don’t want that for you, either. I think we’ve both suffered enough; it’s time to let it all go.”  
  
_We’ve both_ suffered _enough._ Despite all that she has said, it is these words that echo in his ears, and perhaps it is antithetical to what she is asking for, but in this moment, all he can bring himself to say is, “I’m sorry, Diane, I’m so sorry.”  
  
She takes his face between her two hands and gives him a gentle smile. “I know,” she tells him, and by the sincerity he hears plainly in her voice, he knows she does. “But I don’t want you to be, not anymore. Neither of needs any of this weighing on us any longer. I-I still don’t know what a future would look like for us… should I make it through all of this... we’d need to discuss a lot before we moved forward in any way. But no matter what is or isn’t to come, the pain and regret is in the past, okay?”  
  
He nods, but barely perceptively, and so she goes on imploring him, “Promise me.”  
  
Again, he responds—this time verbally, with an affirmative “I promise.”—but it is quiet and he avoids her eyes. He understands how this is what she needs, knows that it would be healthy for himself, too… but he still cannot help but feel that he’s being let off easy.  
  
It is then though that her hands press more firmly against his cheeks, angling his face upward and forcing him to meet her gaze. “Promise me,” she says again, and he can see within her glistening eyes how desperate she is for him to do just that, to mean it.  
  
The truth is, he will never not be sorry for having made such a grave mistake that night, will never not be sorry for having lost that time with her. But perhaps she is right on some level—perhaps it is time to accept the past for what it is and move forward, if only so that the remainder of the time he has left with her, be it two months or twenty years, may be filled with pure love and warmth and not clouded by the demons of their past. He’s been thankful to have had this time with her here and now, but perhaps he hasn’t been as present as he could have been, as present as she is now giving him permission to be. If his past misstep followed by this nightmare has taught him anything, it’s how precious time spent with her is.  
  
And so, he takes a deep breath, letting his eyes close tightly as he does so, and when he releases the breath he releases so much more along with it, and when he opens his eyes there she is, and he can tell her with truth, “I promise.”  
  
“Good.” Her voice is quiet and a little tearful, but also has a lightness to it, as though a weight has been lifted. She then moves her arms to encircle him and he’s quick to return the embrace, holding her tightly to him, and God, he must admit that he feels as though a weight has been lifted for him, too, even if another heaviness still lingers.  
  
It’s a long time before she pulls away, but she does eventually, but only to where her forehead rests against his temple. “I’m tired,” she whispers then, and she sounds it—he can only imagine the extent of it.  
  
After a final beat to savor this moment of intimacy they've just shared, he pulls back further and gives her a gentle smile. “I’m sure. You should get some sleep, Di.”  
  
She nods, giving him a smile of her own before rising from the bed and he cannot deny that he feels bereft of all that is Diane. But then she does something that has his heart swelling in an instant: she turns to him and reaches out her hand. “Join me?”  
  
Struck, his lips twitch into a hint of a grateful smile before he rises himself and takes her hand as she leads them to their bedroom.  
  
*  
  
So much about their lives has changed over the last year and a half, but as he lay in the bed they shared, in the room they shared, in the home they shared, side by side with his front pressed to her back and his arm securely around her midsection, their steady breathing in sync, it somehow all feels exactly as it was. And though there is still so much wrong, so much to think and worry about, that night he sleeps more peacefully than he has in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading--hope it was worth the wait!


End file.
